


At the Violet Hour

by delgaserasca



Category: Wire in the Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Violet Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posted from livejournal.

_why put a new address on the same old loneliness?_

 

 

 

 

  
_But you could stay,_ he says, somewhere in recesses of her imagination, _there's nothing out there you can't find here. Death is death wherever you go._

And thank you, she thinks, for bringing it down to the least essential point.

 

 

 

 

She doesn't pack. Aside from her clothes which she slings into a duffel, and a box full of photos, she doesn't pack. Instead she gives the keys to her brother when he comes to get the cat and asks if he wouldn't mind... you know. Her brother juggles the cat from one arm to the other, concerned almost, and nods, speaking volumes. Sure, I can pack your entire life for you. No trouble. Did you want to keep the plants?

_What does your Dr. Hill think of all this?_

Her silence tells him something, but not, she suspects, what he thinks.

 

 

 

 

Even the Tony in her subconscious refuses to bend to the will of her personal needs. _You could stay,_ the dream says, and she sees his hands forming the words, his lips - _you could stay_ , a tilt of his head, a sharp sway to force himself into her escaping line of vision. It's disorienting, seeing him in frames, to see him only in the details - a hand here, his jawline there. Is this your life, she thinks, is this how you see the world?

_Death is death,_ he's saying, and she thinks, well, that's one of the big pictures, anyway, and then he's right in front of her, closer and closer, and it wouldn't take much, not much at all if she were to step forward now and touch him. She can smell him, her skin is warm; it wouldn't take much.

Bloody hell, she thinks on waking, it's my dream. Can't I have something, at least?

 

 

 

 

She considers calling him as she leaves the house, and twice more when she's at the airport. There's a last call for boarding and she eyes the payphone to the side thinking, debating with herself. _Death is death,_ she hears, so there's nothing here that she won't find out there, and yes, it wasn't really him, but it's what he'd say, she's almost sure of it, so she turns away and she boards the plane, and she doesn't look back, doesn't imagine he's there behind her, oh no, not for a second, not even once.

**end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Title from T. S. Eliot's _The Waste Land_ (naturally). _At the violet hour, when the eyes and back / Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits / Like a taxi throbbing waiting, / I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, / Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see / At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives / Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea (ll. 215-220)_.  
> 


End file.
